


Unfinished

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, negotiating different sexual needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a low libido, but sometimes he wants orgasms. Sometimes he has very specific fantasies. He thinks he wants a blow job, and it all goes a bit wrong, but luckily John has an idea. John, in short, is brilliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished

The kissing had been going splendidly well. John liked kissing. He liked kissing Sherlock, and Sherlock liked kissing John. A delightful coincidence and they made the most of it.

They’d made a bit of an affectionate production out of shaving before they started for the evening. John cuddling Sherlock as he shaved, Sherlock mapping some of his favourite short cuts between tube stations on John’s back with his tongue and the tip of his nose all across John’s shoulders (and quizzing him on the results, which John laughingly failed every time).

They also applied soothing lotion to one another’s faces, to avoid the beard burn but also because it was tactilely exquisite to run fingers down each other’s cheeks and chins and throats. The exercise was time consuming, but was of itself the point, so no one was complaining. Especially once the kissing commenced, Sherlock straddling John’s lap as they sat up in bed. Small, quick kisses, sometimes enhanced with soft little nips. Long sensuous kissed, involving languid tongues and lavish sighs. The kissing of bare shoulders and along collar bones, the suckling of earlobes, the burying of noses in hair. John got hard sometimes, so Sherlock shifted back to ease any pressure – he didn’t aim to bother John to distraction, and John was content to let any distraction pass in favour of encouraging Sherlock to a pliable bundle in his arms.

But then Sherlock moaned and thrust his hips forward in a completely involuntary demonstration that he’d developed an erection and was interested in doing something with it.

John continued to simply kiss Sherlock, while Sherlock made a delightful mewling noise and tried to keep his hips still. “John,” he breathed into John’s mouth, “God. I want…”

“Whatever you want, sweetling,” John murmured back, “You can have.”

“I want you to suck me off.”

Everything stopped. The kissing. The caressing. John went very still and Sherlock went even more still.

“If you want to,” said Sherlock with such studious neutrality that no one simply hearing him would have any idea he was hard as a brick and trying not to rut on his boyfriend’s soft belly.

“I’d love to, gorgeous. But…”

Sherlock glared at John, who looked sheepish. “Yes, I know,” said John, “You don’t say what you don’t mean. But this is new.”

“I’ve thought about it,” said Sherlock sharply, “I used to think about it rather a lot. When I was away. After you moved back in. After Manchester. I’ve just not been ready.”

“Well, all right then,” John smiled, “If you’re ready and you want that, I am right on board with that idea. On board, upping anchor and heading out to the seven seas, the minute you give the word, you utterly gorgeous thing. Any parameters for me?”

“Just get your mouth on me, John, and let me see you suck me.” Sherlock wriggled away to sprawl on his back on the bed.

John grinned at the enthusiasm and ran his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, over Sherlock’s pants to caress his hips.

“Get on with it,” said Sherlock in very nearly mock impatience. John laughed, hooked his fingers into the band of Sherlock’s boxers and pulled them down and off. Sherlock’s flushed erection sprang free. John leaned down to kiss it, the crown and the shaft.

“In. Your. Mouth.”

John obliged, lipping first at the head then slowly opening wider to slide his mouth down the smooth shaft. He’d done this precisely twice before, with men he’d seen in that awful period when he thought Sherlock was dead. Just to see what it was like. Imagining Sherlock, what it would have been like if Sherlock hadn’t been dead and they’d ever had the sense to act on their attraction earlier. With both of those men, he had used with condoms, and on the whole, the experiences were not all that much fun. They weren’t Sherlock. Nice enough blokes, but not the right one.

Now though, he definitely had the right bloke, and that right bloke definitely had a lovely cock, and those sounds issuing from that sassy mouth were the ones John had always wanted to hear. Gasps and moans, babbling his name slow and then fast. John hadn’t known how much he’d wanted Sherlock’s cock in his mouth until this very moment, when Sherlock had asked for it, and John’s mouth had almost immediately started to open.

The head of Sherlock’s prick was soft, like velvet, and slightly salty with the pre-cum beaded at the slit, which John tasted as he suckled at the crown. The shaft was hard under the taut skin, which was rosy and smooth, delicate even, and so soft against John’s lips as he slid them down. John pressed his tongue to the underside, feeling the frenulum, swirling his tongue a little and sighing at the delicious squirm as Sherlock whined and rocked into his mouth.

Down and down, and John could feel the glans against the back of his throat, the hard shaft along his tongue. His nose was tickled by the tight curls of Sherlock’s pubic hair, and it was, all in all, fan-fucking-tastic. Slowly, he pulled off, pressing his lips around Sherlock’s circumference, moving his tongue against the hot skin in his mouth, over Sherlock’s silky foreskin, ending with a kiss to the sticky slit. He licked his lips, grinned, and began the slow downward slide again.

Bliss. Bliss. Delicious, and the utmost perfection, this slow tasting, and Sherlock’s heavy breathing, the feeling of Sherlock watching, so intensely, the litany of _JohnJohnJohnJohn_ that had dropped away to only a gentle moan, highlighted by a brief, exquisite higher-pitched sigh, Sherlock even wanting this, wanting John to do this for him, to trust John with this. It was… it was…

“No! Stop! John, _stop_!”

Sherlock pushed John roughly, though John had already stopped, pulled off rapidly, his heart pounding with distress at Sherlock’s distress. Sherlock shoved, almost thumped at him, and was drawing his knees up, covering himself, skin flushed, expression angry.

“Sherlock…”

“It’s too _intense_. **_Stop_**.”

“I…”

“ _Shut up_.”

John darted back on the bed, pulling his arms and legs close to his body, trying to give Sherlock more room.

Sherlock glared at him, and John was puzzled by the anger and the shame he saw in Sherlock’s expression. He shuffled further away.

“That’s right,” snarled Sherlock, “Go. _Piss off_. Just like everyone else.” He was struggling to control his panting breaths, his chest heaving as though he’d run six times around Regent’s Park.

John froze. Shocked and hurt, his first impulse was indeed to piss off, get away from Sherlock and whatever it was he’d done wrong. He’d not taken advantage, had he? Sherlock had asked him. Sherlock had promised he’d never ask John do anything he himself didn’t want. He had asked, and he’d liked it to start with, John was sure.

It was like Manchester, again. When he’d wanted John to touch him and then become overwhelmed.

_Right. Okay. Right. It was like that, then._

John willed away his hurt. He took a breath, gathering his soldier’s calm, and said: “I’m not everybody else. I’m not going anywhere. I’m over here, giving you space, but I’m not going away.”

“Why not?” snapped Sherlock, and the distress and shame were more pronounced now than the anger, “I promise and I don’t deliver. You get to start and not finish. I reject you.”

“You didn’t reject me, Sherlock. You got overwhelmed.”

Sherlock stared, swallowed. His eyes glittered brightly. He looked like he wanted to run. “You’re not saying it,” he said.

“Saying what?”

“You’re not asking for the list anymore, of the people I’ve been with. Who didn’t listen. You don’t want to sound like you’re deliberately provoking me to arousal with that protective streak. But you still want to punch them all.”

“Yes I do.”

“Good. I do too, these days.” Sherlock took a deep breath and calmed slightly. The anger – self-directed, John now suspected – had gone. The shame, too, John thought.

“Is it all right if I hold your hand?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him as though he were mad. Or a miracle. He tentatively offered his hand, palm up. John took it gently and gave it one warm, reassuring squeeze.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I’m not angry. I’m not anything.”

“You’re concerned.”

“Well, yeah. You’re upset. I want to help you not be upset, if I can. If you need some time alone, I’ll go. I don’t want to leave you here, but I’ll do that, if you need me to. I’ll just be in the kitchen. Making you a cup of tea. I won’t be far, though. I’m not storming off in a stupid huff. Would you like me to do that? Make some tea for us?”

Sherlock blew out a thin puff of air, centring himself. He held firmly onto John’s hand.

“No. Stay here. With me.”

“Okay.”

“I… did want it, you know. Your mouth on me. I want it. I think of you doing that for me, and I know I want it. To try, anyway. But it… it didn’t go the way I have imagined it. It was too much.” He looked miserable, and then the expression began to disappear, into no expression. Behind the wall.

“Sherlock. Sweetheart. Don’t.” John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. What he actually wanted to do was wrap his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, around his back, and pull him in close, and tell him that was all right. But he was almost certain that Sherlock would flee if he tried. “You don’t have to shut off like that. Please, baby.”

Sherlock’s mouth crinkled unhappily, but he stopped receding.

“That… that’s something you want, yeah? It’s okay if you change your mind…”

“I haven’t changed my mind. I just. _Can’t_.”

“You said it wasn’t like you imagined. What did you imagine?”

“What do you _think_?” another snarl.

“Sherlock. Don’t. Please. You don’t have to be… whatever you’re being. Embarrassed or afraid or whatever. I don’t care if what you imagine isn’t what usually happens. I don’t… I don’t have expectations, you know? I’ve done that twice before, when you were gone, and it was okay, not awful, but not great. But just then, with you, it was lovely. Because it _was_ you. I want to know what _you_ want. I want to try to do that for you, but I need to know what that is. Please.”

Sherlock blinked. “I realise,” he said carefully, “That in my imagination the situation is… idealised. In a fantasy, I can delete extraneous data and input.”

“Tell me anyway. Maybe… maybe we can find a way to achieve that.”

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow, but he considered it.

“When I think of you… your mouth on my cock,” he narrowed his eyes, recalling the exact image, “You… start. By kissing. Kissing my glans.”

John lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips, kissed the knuckles, and then he turned their hands so that he could kiss the pad of Sherlock’s thumb. “Like this?” A soft kiss with full lips. Once. Simple and gentle. No tongue. Just a kiss.

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock, “You do that… three times.”

John, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, kissed the pad of his thumb again, and a third time, each kiss identical.

Sherlock couldn’t shift his eyes from his thumb and John’s mouth. “And then you… lick me.”

“The glans, or the shaft?”

“The glans. Just the head.”

“Like this?” A simple stripe across the pad of Sherlock’s thumb. No lingering or swirling. A long, wide stripe of a lick, and done.

“Th-three times.”

With slow care, John licked Sherlock’s thumb with the flat of his tongue twice more, identical to the first. Sherlock’s breathing was changing tempo again.

“Is this all right, honeybee?”

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock, a little shakily, transfixed by the sight.

“What next?”

“You p-put your mouth over… over the head. A little down my… my shaft. And you suck.”

“Do I move my tongue?”

“No. No, you press your tongue against me. I can feel it. Warm. Your mouth is… you hold still and you push your tongue against me and you suck.”

“Hard or soft?”

“Soft.”

Again, slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to say no, John moved to demonstrate. He opened his mouth around Sherlock’s thumb, then closed it, lips meeting between the knuckle and base. He pressed his tongue firmly to the pad, so it curved slightly around the skin, and he sucked, softly, a little pressure upward from his tongue, inward. Once. Twice. Three ti…

“And then I come.” Sherlock blinked rapidly.

John opened his mouth and, still holding Sherlock’s hand, removed his thumb. He rubbed the back of Sherlock’s hand with his fingers again.

“When you come,” John asked, “Is it with my mouth still on you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to swallow? I’m okay with that, by the way.”

“I… yes.” Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking. “Your mouth stays on me, not sucking, still, and you let me come in your mouth, and you let me go and then you swallow. I don’t know why. Tidier, I expect.”

John smiled. “It is. I hadn’t thought about it much before, but when I think about you, coming in my mouth, me swallowing. That’s… kind of sexy. I don’t know why. I’d like to, though, if you’re okay with that.”

“It’s my idea, John.”

“That’s right. You’re the genius. I forget sometimes.”

Sherlock gave him a _Look_ , but it wasn’t at all serious. The makings of a smile hovered at the corner of his lips.

“Can I ask a few more questions?” John asked, still holding Sherlock’s hand.

“Of course.” Sherlock was in a state of pitched arousal, and he was leaning towards John, avidly listening.

“Are you worried about coming quickly, in this scenario?”

Sherlock frowned. “How is that relevant?”

“I thought perhaps you were trying to make yourself last longer, stave off your orgasm, and that could have contributed to being overwhelmed with data. I know you sort of trained yourself up to come quickly. That’s okay, though. I mean, if you’re worried about that on my account, don’t be. I’m not going to be all disappointed or disdainful or any of that shit. Any time you want to come, if that’s what you want, if I can help you get there, that’s fantastic, if you enjoy it, no matter how quick it is. But if you want to last longer on your own account, there are things you can try. _We_ can try. But. If I put my mouth on you and you come quickly and that’s what you want, then relax and do that. It’s all fine, baby.”

Sherlock breathed in. Out. “It’s true that… my propensity to climax quickly… once elicited… unpleasant comment.” He looked at John’s expression and raised an eyebrow, accompanied by a rueful smile. “Are we back to you only _thinking_ how much you want that list of people to punch? I’m well on the way to actually considering writing it up for you.”

“You tempt me mightily, Sherlock. My sweet boy. Frankly, if you want to come the minute I look at you saucily enough, that’s all good by me, as long as it makes you happy.”

“You’re quite a rare creature, John Watson.”

“It’s lovely if you think so,” said John, “But mostly, it’s just that I love you. Body, mind and soul. I think even my individual cells love you independently. I’m pretty sure that if I loved you any more than I do, my whole body would catch on fire.”

Sherlock leaned over to kiss John, a simple kiss that grew into an attempt to communicate, cell to cell, the imminent danger they were both in, of bursting into beautiful flames.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips after a while, “Can we try again?”

“Of course, baby. Of course.”

“If I…”

“If it’s too much, we stop. That’s all right. Of course it’s all right. Of course you can. I love you.”

Sherlock lay back on the bed, his legs spread on either side of John’s. John kneeled between his thighs, stroking the long muscles with his palm. “Is this all right, sweetheart? My hands here?”

“Yes. Perfect. Leave them there. Don’t move them.”

John’s hands stilled on Sherlock’s upper thighs. The _rectus femoris_ muscles. He felt them tense then relax under each of his hands.

Sherlock’s erection was very erect, very pink, the foreskin pulled back to reveal the glans wet with pre-cum. John tried to steady his breathing.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the shaft and rubbed up and down it once, lightly. “Oh god, John.”

“Easy, sweetheart. Just tell me when you’re ready. Tell me to stop if you want. It’s all good.”

Sherlock breathed in deeply, held it, exhaled slowly. His gaze was on John’s mouth. “Please. Kiss… kiss it. Kiss me.”

John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s as he bent over, and then, just as he had practised, he kissed the slick crown of Sherlock’s cock. One. Two. Three. Nothing extra, nothing fancy. Three soft kisses.

He sat back on his calves, automatically licking his lips. He realised Sherlock was staring hungrily at him and stopped.

“Oh,” breathed Sherlock. He closed his eyes a moment, then opened them. “Now… can you… lick me?”

Keeping his hands firmly on Sherlock’s thighs, not even moving his thumbs, though he was tempted to rub against Sherlock’s pale skin, John bent low again while Sherlock held his cock up and steady. The flat of his tongue pressed against the glans and dragged, not slowly, but not too fast. Sherlock gasped and pushed up a little, but John kept to the rehearsal, a long, wide stripe of a lick. Twice. Third time. All within parameters, easy to predict, easy to focus on that one intense sensation without the haze of too much data.

Sherlock’s fingers around his prick tightened, and then loosened again. “John,” he panted.

“Okay baby?”

“Please. Please. Please. Do that again. Do that… do that again.”

John leaned down and licked. Just like the last time. Again. Again. Scientific measurements could hardly have detected a difference between each swipe of the tongue. Sherlock, eyes wide open, drinking it in, held perfectly still for each lick and his hands trembled.

“Oh god.”

“Sherlock…”

“Suck me. Suck me, John. Please. Now. Now. Now.”

John put his warm mouth over Sherlock’s cock, over the crown and frenulum, lips closing just below that taut line of skin, just above Sherlock’s fingers. He pushed his tongue against the underside of the hot skin, curled it naturally around the curve of Sherlock’s shaft, and he sucked gently, his tongue still, keeping the stimulation direct and uncomplicated. Once. Twice. Thr…

Sherlock arched and came, a sudden pulse and a sudden cry. John had to steady himself on Sherlock’s thighs and then Sherlock’s hips settled back on the bed and John pulled off, quickly, and sat quietly between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock was panting for breath, and John waited until Sherlock’s eyes were focused on him before he swallowed.

Sherlock’s come tasted a little salty, a little bitter. It wasn’t bad.

The tip of John’s tongue snuck out to lick at his lips, at the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock started to laugh. It was a surprised sound to start with, and then a happy sound, a giggle. John grinned back at him.

“Still think it’s sexy?” Sherlock asked between fits.

“Yeah. Actually, yes, I do.” John’s eyes twinkled. “Part of you now is being converted for use inside me. Protein. Fructose. Vitamin C. Sodium. Lactic acid. Calcium. Zinc. A bunch of other stuff. You’ll be in my cells soon.”

“Most of it will be evacuated within a day,” laughed Sherlock with a sardonic lift of the eyebrow.

“But until then, your body’s in my body. I told you my cells were in love with you.”

“So you did.” Sherlock’s smile was perfect.

“What was it like from your perspective?” John asked.

“It shouldn’t be amazing. But it is. You swallowing my living cells. You’re right. It’s sexy. Also more than a little obsessive of us.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Me too.” Sherlock held out his arms and John folded towards him, to be embraced in those long, lovely arms. They moved, sorting themselves out, upside down as they were on the bed, head towards the foot, feet on the pillows. Sherlock pulled John close to kiss his forehead, his nose, and then his mouth, a lingering kiss.

“Mmm,” he said thoughtfully, “I taste different out of your mouth.”

Well, of course Sherlock knew what his own semen tasted like. John doubted there were many men alive who in hadn’t tried their own at least once, out of curiosity. The thought made him chuckle.

Sherlock kissed John’s lips again, and his cheek. “I conducted an experiment once, over several weeks. The effect of diet on the taste of semen. I could do it again with you, if you like, though I doubt the results will be much different, or any more useful.”

“You must have been extraordinarily bored. I can’t imagine the results of _that_ being useful to a case.”

“I was _very_ bored. And you had moved back in, and I was getting occasional erections that at the time were rather wasted. I decided to do something marginally useful with them.”

John giggled hard and flopped onto his back. Sherlock rolled over to kiss him some more, and run his hand down John’s bare chest, to the erection that stretched his pants.

“I want to watch you masturbate,” said Sherlock, “May I?”

John shoved a hand into his pants and brought out his aching cock. “Christ, yes.”

“Here.” Sherlock sat up briefly to tug down John’s underwear, giving John more freedom of movement. He lay back down, propped up on his elbow, to watch. He rested his free hand on John’s chest and rubbed at one nipple, then the other.

“You’re beautiful,” he said to John, leaning over to kiss his cheek again, but his eyes not leaving John’s hand as John wrapped it around his own thick shaft and began to pull.

“If you want to keep rubbing my nipples, that’d be fantastic,” murmured John. Sherlock pinched one nub gently, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, then soothed it with a lick as his fingers worked on the other. John sigh-moaned and thrust faster into his fist.

“I love you,” whispered Sherlock, “Touch your balls.”

John reached down with his other hand and rolled his sac softly in his palm. His legs spread wider and he fondled, pulled, began to mutter. “Sherlock. Baby. God. That’s…”

Sherlock licked the other nipple, went back to rubbing the first. John moved restlessly, his hips thrusting up, his head tossing to look at Sherlock, only to find Sherlock looking into his eyes, then down his body.

“I love watching you do this, John,” said Sherlock, “I think about you doing this while thinking about me. You do think about me, don’t you?”

“Christ yes. Only you. Always you.”

Sherlock sucked one of John’s nipples into his mouth and bit gently at it, licked it, suckled it, and his hand slid down over John’s chest, then stomach, then abdomen, then thigh, and then under his balls.

John came, hard, loud and long, and subsided with a dazed and happy smile while Sherlock gathered him close against his body. While John’s eyes were closed in dizzy bliss, Sherlock licked the tip of his own finger thoughtfully, then turned his attention to kissing John’s shoulders, chest and neck, following a trail up to his lips.

“I don’t know if I want to do that again,” Sherlock murmured as he kissed John’s face, “The blow job.”

“That’s okay, sweetpea.”

“It’s just… it was perfect. Perfect.”

John hummed happily and brushed his nose against Sherlock’s. “Good.”

“I’ve memorised it.”

John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock and snuggled in. “That’s extremely flattering.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Honeybumble,” John looked up and placed a row of kisses down Sherlock’s jaw, “I’ve just been told I gave the perfect blow job on my third attempt. I’ve just had a fabulous orgasm with the smartest and prettiest man in the entire world, and I’m fairly sure you just licked some of my come off your hand as a taste comparison with your own, which probably should be a bit odd, but mostly I think that’s sexy too, even if you never do it again. So no, I don’t mind anything you want to do or don’t want to do. You’re here. You love me. I love you. We both feel terrific.” He blinked at Sherlock. “You do feel terrific, don’t you?”

“I feel absolutely tremendously terrific, John.”

The little crease of worry disappeared from his brow. “Brilliant. You’re brilliant. I’m brilliant. Everything’s brilliant.”

“It is,” agreed Sherlock, “You are. Brilliant.”

John gave a funny little half-asleep laugh, a bit smug, and bit disbelieving, and then he sighed and fell asleep.

Sherlock buried his nose in John’s hair and breathed deeply. Sighed and relaxed.

“Perhaps,” he murmured against John’s hair, “We will do that again, sometime.”

John snored slightly, and smiling, Sherlock pulled the duvet over them both.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unfinished [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7417063) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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